One Author In Search of A Comprehensible Conclusion
by Nikki Johnson

In la nouvelle ville, we held hands. The old men drinking coffee stared and a few of the younger men made comments, but they were an audience who cared only generally about a Moroccan man and an American woman walking together. The streets of the new city are straight, always hitting one another perpendicularly. Gossip fades quickly in the expanse of wide streets lined with colonial buildings, buildings held up by columns and filled with important business. There are none of the turns of street and tongue found in the medina, the old city, where store fronts, people, fruit stands, fabric stores, public baths, chickens alive and ready compress into a singular force of momentum, carrying information to whomever is not supposed to know it.

This is the first paragraph of the short story I want to write. It is the only paragraph of the short story I want to write. It’s not a matter of knowing what happens next, because I know the sequence of events in my true life, non-fictional relationship with Zachariah. I just don’t understand what they mean – did Zach and I share a love, a misunderstanding, a deceit? It is a tellable story, but not an understandable one. Since coming back from Morocco three weeks ago, I’ve been stuck on the first paragraph, because in a quality piece of writing, telling is not enough. A writer should convey meaning, but since I don’t understand the end of our story, I don’t know how to color the earlier image of us walking through the streets. To me, the end creates the lens through which I see the beginning.

In the short story class I am in, the professor often talks of how stories can end with good or bad ambiguity. I see the story of Zach and me possessing that troublesome, this makes no sense, kind of ambiguity. The professor emphasizes the importance of clarifying set-up, conflict and resolution in order to reveal a person’s moment of clarity. I have trouble with this trio in writing fiction and prefer to ignore it. But now I wonder if the trio can help me figure out my own life. Stories have form and meaning. Stories reflect life. So, the form of stories must reflect the form of life, and reveal life’s meaning.

I have a plan. I am going to yet again begin telling my story without understanding it. But this time I’ll tell it on paper, and figure out its parts – set-up, conflict, resolution. By the time I reach the end, the short story framework should reveal the correct interpretation and true meaning of the conclusion. I can then go back and rewrite, knowing through which lens to see my memories. I am tired of the consuming ache of bad ambiguity, with my brain and heart in constant motion, moving over words, touches and glances to try and make sense of them. I just need to know the truth of what happened in Morocco. Then it will all make sense.

Morocco became the setting for my semester abroad because it was unexpected. Paris and Seville are run of the mill, West Africa is pretty hip these days, but Morocco not many expect. It’s too much a part of the Arab world, too close to the Middle East for most Americans. The increasingly loud voices of discouragement increasingly encouraged me. I wasn’t thinking of Morocco as exotic, but rather thinking about other Americans thinking me exotic and important. I didn’t think much about the actual place until I got off the plane, and then it was on my mind for the next four months.

Morocco and I did not fall in love at first sight. I couldn’t deal with not being able to walk around undisturbed. Every few steps I took, men tried to start a conversation with me. They used different approaches, from the innocent, “welcome to Morocco”, to the crude, “fuck, you do want?”. The first day of classes Abdelkader, our program assistant, shared techniques for deflecting sketchy guys.

People were everywhere, always on the streets, talking, lingering, discussing, walking. The quiet remoteness of a car or a head-phoned walk to campus were absent. I couldn’t deal with the eyes and the noise. In la nouvelle ville as cars honked their way down the main street Muhammad V, men sat outside coffee houses, chairs on the street, and watched the multitudes of people filling the sidewalks.

I lived in the other part of town, in the medina, in an old Andalusian house with my host father, mother and two sisters. The first day I entered the house, it reminded of a little old lady who was once beautiful, powerful and commanding. A sense of elegance lingered. The house formed a square’s outline – the center an open space from ground to sky. My host mother Aziza filled the empty space with sound, yelling at me in Arabic and French to eat more, eat more. She worried I’d go home skinny, and Americans would hate Moroccans. I worried I’d go home obese. Whenever I sat alone in the house, someone came over not to interrupt, but to include me. It felt like the former. As we all sat in the living room watching Egyptian soap operas, I asked my journal why I left campus life behind.

Four weeks into the semester, Zachariah walked up to me on the street not to interrupt, but to include. He is the boy in the first paragraph of the story I want to write. Those sentences describe what became our daily walks. I stopped for the most superficial of reasons – he is extremely good looking. Then I started walking again, and he stayed by me, talking nonstop in better grammatical English than I ever learned. I found myself slowing so we could be in step. Eyes watched us, but men made none of their usual comments with Zachariah next to me.

While weaving in and out of people, he immediately questioned me about U.S. policies, referenced a war in the 1100s and asked about my politics. I lamented Bush’s likely win the next month, while deep down counting on Kerry to pull it off. Zachariah said he’d rather vote in the American than the Moroccan elections, because the American president had a greater impact upon his future.

Then we switched to books, and he turned out to be a comparative literature major, hence his stellar Arabic, French and English. I tried out the few Arabic words gleaned from my daily three-hour intensive language study. He laughed at my misshapen sounds, telling me I had been calling my sister “cross-eyes.” After pronunciation correction, he asked straight out about my religious beliefs. Our program leaders had advised us not to mention atheism, in order to avoid unintentional offense in a country 98% Muslim, 1% Jewish, 1% Christian and therefore 100% People of the Book. I said, “I’m not Muslim.” He pressed me on that point, and I started my ramble about certainty requiring proof.

Our walking matched the slow tumble of my thoughts. We covered politics, literature and religion, topics I loved to discuss but rarely did. No one ever asked me about my beliefs and political and literary opinions. I had thought such conversations would take place daily in college, part of my development into a true young intellectual. I’m not sure what campus conversation was developing me into, but there we talked constantly about potential dates, dream crushes, the burden of homework and upcoming weekend events. Yet on an afternoon in early October 2004, at 4pm in Rabat, the conversation just kept going, and as we walked, instead of moving through my surroundings, I began taking in everything.

I saw the stacks of typewriters for sale at the medina’s main gate. I looked the man pushing the cart of pomegranates in the eyes. We stopped and bought an avocado shake, since I had never tasted one. Zachariah never asked where we were going, it didn’t seem to be a concern. I headed in the direction of home, knowing Aziza would worry if I was absent for late afternoon tea. Pastry smells filled the air, luring people to buy a snack to compliment tea. There were many more public baths than I had previously noticed. I pointed to one and said “hammam.” Zachariah laughed and made me form the sounds repeatedly until the correct pronunciation emerged from my mouth. We passed the jewelry stores lining my street, and instead of focusing my gaze unwaveringly ahead, I absorbed the glistening gold and silver. I smiled at noticing how cell phones lined the front and sides of a pen filled with live chickens on sale for dinner. The mosque nearest my house was no longer a shape seen out of my peripheral vision, but beautiful. The Call to Prayer streamed from the mosque to my ear every morning around 5am, but I had never looked at the actual mosque, always hurrying with shades down to avoid any unfriendly commentary.

All this sight, sound and smell stimulation poured into me for the first time as we talked. Zachariah told me about Muhammad V University, where he ran track and read books. He talked about his love for Morocco, but his worry over the country’s obscenely high unemployment. I told him about growing up in Chicago, going to school in Iowa. He asked lots of questions about school. He listened, really listened, asking questions based upon what I had said. I told him of hours in the library’s first floor study room, of planning superhero themed dance parties, of many conversations held over coffee, and how all these experiences added up to form a bubble I both loved and was ready to burst. I didn’t tell him that frustration with boys was the main reason for the bursting. Freshman through junior years, three situations continuously repeated themselves: boy liked me and I did not like boy (very rare); boy liked my body but wasn’t into much else (occasional); I liked boy and he did not like me (most common). An option number four never materialized: I liked boy and boy liked me. I didn’t tell him I had never been in a long-term relationship, let alone non-platonic love.

We walked, the story’s set-up continued building, and my mind began working in two parts. I began daydreaming of the fourth option while listening and talking with Zach. The two parts came together when Zachariah started catching my gaze, holding it for a moment, and then turning back to the street before us. The moments grew, and I didn’t look away. Zach then asked if I had a boyfriend. Truthfully, I answered no. He said it was impossible for a woman like me to be alone. As he made that statement, I started to worry maybe Zachariah was an option two in disguise. The violent sex-filled American films reaching Moroccan cinemas gave the impression all American women were Angelina Jolies. The dreaming part of my mind started seeing his friendly demeanor as a front for a combined, “Welcome to Morocco, fuck, you do want?”.

At the Moudden’s door, he asked for my number. I said no. He told me to call him Zach as I closed the door. We both knew we’d see each other again. Rabat’s a city of streets whose last purpose is to take you from one place to another. Upstairs my sixteen year old sister Khowla pulled me into our room with whispers. She’d seen Zach at the door and wanted the details. She warned me not to tell Aziza. Last time her mother found out about a boyfriend, she was not allowed out at night. Now she keeps her boyfriends secret. We gossiped, and she painted my nails. Twenty year old Farah came in and offered to do my make-up if I ever went out with him. I managed to discover the world’s one universal – gossiping about men unites women.

Warning women to stay away from men is another kind of universal. My first paragraph was inspired by the speed with which gossip spreads through the medina. The morning after that walk with Zach, Abdelkader tapped me on the shoulder during a break from class. In looking back at my memory, I now see this as a moment of foreshadowing. He asked if Zach had been harassing me. I told him no, not at all, why did Abdelkader ask – did he know Zach? Abdelkader said no, he just wanted to make sure I hadn’t been bothered. I assured him everything was fine and returned to class.

Zach and I walked somewhere together everyday. He’d find me hurrying through the medina labyrinth on my way to school, or heading towards Muhammad V to meet another student for an espresso. One afternoon he asked me about Tahar Ben Jelloun, and we walked on the beach to finish the conversation. He was impressed not only that I’d read L’Enfant de Sable, but that I was not a fan. I went on about how Ben Jelloun’s assumptions prevented any genuine honesty or complexity. I thanked the sky and whomever Zach believed to be in it that I’d chosen Ben Jelloun’s book to read the week before coming to Morocco. It felt good seeing him smile as I talked, and I relished the joy of agreement.

Zach walked me back to the medina. I followed him when he turned onto a street I knew dead-ended. My heart pounded as he took my hand and pulled me down this dark, narrow space. Then he placed his hands on my hips, pushed me into the corner and kissed me gently, completely on the lips. For the first time he called me beautiful, told me I was like the gazelle. I waited in anticipation, expecting to hear a plan of sneaking me into his room, or at least a fumble to undo my jeans’ button. But that night ended with the kiss.

Later in the week, Khowla asked if I was in love. In a gossiping frenzy, I had slipped and shared stories of several illicit kisses. I told her maybe. She would not approve of what I really wanted to gossip about – would Zach be the first person I slept with whom I really liked and who really liked me? I tingled when he touched me and thought deeply when he questioned me. I couldn’t speculate with Khowla about the dreamed for opportunity of sexual contact with Zach. Khowla had enough trouble finding a place where she could hold her boyfriend’s hand, and so practically and morally, sex was nowhere near an option.

Abdelkader told me it was not love. In the short story framework, this is where the conflict starts to build. Abdelkader, the smart, wonderful, hilarious and above all kind and generous man whose professional and personal objectives were to look after us American students, told me to stay away from Zach.

I challenged him, telling him he knew nothing about the connection Zach and I shared. Five minutes of meandering sentences later, he declared Zach could not be trusted and was using me as an attempt to reach America. I thanked Abdelkader for his concern, but remarked on his hypocrisy – he was dating an American who lived in California. He continued on to say Beth was the first American he had ever dated, and he wanted her to live in Morocco.

I seem to remember striking an attitude pose, hands on hips, while saying, “Well, maybe I’m the first American Zach’s ever dated.”

He then said, “Margaret, you might wrong. Zachariah has probably dated an American student every semester. I feel very badly saying this to you, but I think he is at least trying to sleep with you. Moroccan girls, they, they won’t do that with him.”

“Abdelkader, what does ‘probably’ mean?”

“I am just telling you to be careful. I say this only to help.”

“I know Abdelkader, I know, but you are not helping.”

I didn’t see Zach that afternoon. I made sure I didn’t see Zach that afternoon. I took some back routes to the beach, knowing Zach waited to intercept me on the larger medina paths. The water was too polluted to swim in, and cars rushed by about 20ft up from the sand, but it was enough of the indulgent setting I needed.

My thoughts were not particularly unique. I was a girl in doubt. I went over previous conversations, if America had been mentioned, if sex had been mentioned. It occurred to me that I thought about sex all the time. Zach never mentioned it and had done nothing more than put his lips to mine and hesitantly place his hands on my lower back. He did not just want to get in my pants, he wanted to talk about politics, about the intervention/occupation of Iraq – he wanted to hear my opinion about things that mattered. Did we talk about America? Yes, but we also talked about Morocco. He mentioned wanting to get involved in the Moroccan government after university, though he never seemed to do much homework and always hung around the streets waiting for me. Was the talk about government for real? Was I harsh and judgmental – back on campus, plenty of smart people didn’t spend time on homework. I got up to leave the beach and stop thinking.

That night I went to the cyber on Muhammad V. There’s one in the medina, but it’s the social hotspot for couples wanting to escape prying parents. I needed a quieter scene. I checked my email and thought about home. There, when boys I liked didn’t like me, I knew my desire was for an illusionary possibility. Here, Zach seemed genuine, which meant my attachment could be to something real, something mutual. Then I remembered – at school, I often thought emotional attachments real and mutual before realizing them to be one-sided and illusionary. It turned out they just weren’t that into me. So why would Zach be into me so quickly – no boy I had ever been interested in was as attentive as Zach. This generosity and caring were abnormal and perhaps suspect.

Zach caught me on my way out of the cyber. We went to our usual cafe, to the second floor where we could sit unwatched. There were many silences in our conversation. Then I asked him straight up if he’d dated other Americans. He said he’d hung out with other Americans, but that it wasn’t like how things were with us. I wanted to press him on that point, to better understand how things were with us, but I had no reason not to believe him except for Abdelkader, and I couldn’t start by saying “Abdelkader said.”

I looked him deeply in the eyes, and they were unblinking. It seemed silly, the idea that Zach might have something to cover up. I took a breath, smiled and began a story about Farah's dramas with her long distance boyfriend. And then our walking, talking, and illicit kissing continued.

I decided to forget Abdelkader’s warning. If I began thinking about it, I started humming. Sometime soon after that, conflict began heading toward climax. It was a week before I left Morocco, 8pm, and Zach knew I didn’t need to be home until 12am – an extension of curfew since Khowla’s new cell phone meant calling her instead of ringing the bell. The house only had one key, which Aziza kept. Zach also knew I had my passport, because I needed to cash my final traveler’s check.

He suggested trying to get a hotel. We were walking through the medina, headed to la nouvelle ville. Usually I took in the details of my surrounding while walking with Zach. Now I just saw movement, people passing and pursuing me in all directions. The make-shift lights were set-up to display the goods for sale lining the streets, and everything glowed with artificial illumination.

I said okay.

As we crossed into la nouvelle ville, he took my hand. This was what I had wanted for weeks, but now that is was happening, it seemed like evidence of Abdelkader being right. The hotel looked shady, right on the boundary lines of town. Zach didn’t want to be recognized. I realized this was understandable, given his parents wouldn’t even meet me as his platonic American friend. But then it seemed further insult – why wouldn’t he hold my hand in the medina?

Zach asked in English for a room. The man behind the desk gave us an appraising look, and shook his head. He didn’t speak English. Zach then spoke in French, trying to avoid Arabic and the accent that indisputably proved his Moroccan identity. I kept my eyes on the counter. My mother always told me to follow my gut, and I tried to hear what my gut was telling me about Zach. I needed to make a decision before indecision made one for me. The man asked for identification, took my passport and Zach’s ID and went into the back room.

Zach took my hand, and said he loved me. He did not look at me. I tried to think of what to will the hotel man to do. I willed him to give us the room. Then I willed him to refuse it.

When a few minutes later he came back, returned our identification and made a frown, I loved Morocco. Morocco made a correct decision – uncertain sex should not be publicly encouraged. In Arabic, he told “Zachariah” it was not lawful to rent a room to an unmarried couple. Zach asked if I wanted to try another place and again did not look at me. His question answered my questions. My gut insisted on going home. We walked in silence and did not have our nightly ally kiss. I felt relieved entering the house. I lay in bed, assured of having done the right thing. Then, around 2am, the possibility materialized in my thoughts that Zach was uncomfortable, modest, shy, virginal, worried – and that I’d misinterpreted the variety of his disappointment.

I didn’t see Zach for the next few days. I wanted to see him, but not if he wasn’t making an effort to see me. I decided to take the train to Casablanca two days early, to see that city before catching the plane back to the U.S.. My train left at 6:30am. I told my family it was fine, I’d just catch a cab to the station. They all panicked – I would not be allowed to find a cab alone. Ahmed had bad legs, so Aziza got up early and put a ring on each of her fingers. She told me it was for protection. Everyone stumbled out of bed to embrace me goodbye.

Finally all the streets were empty and quiet, just how I had wanted. But the silence frightened me more than any of the catcalls, the comments, the smells. Aziza grabbed my arm, and though she kept telling me we were putting ourselves in a lot of danger, I felt okay with her ringed hand on me.

The cab let me out, and I went into the station to wait for the train. Zach was sitting on a bench, the only person on the platform. He looked me directly in the eyes as I walked toward him. Unexpectedly, I found myself acting out this story’s climax alongside the tracks.

This part of the memory always happens in slow motion. Uncertainty, fear and hope oozed out my pores into the silence, until finally I asked:

“Do you love me?”

He said yes, said yes in the way men throughout the world can say yes. And like women throughout the world, I didn’t know if I could believe him.

He asked me to stay in Morocco. I told him I had to go back.

He said okay, then help me get to America. I said nothing.

We kissed.

Then I stood up and got on the train.

There are none of the turns of street and tongue found in the medina, the old city, where store fronts, people, fruit stands, fabric stores, public baths, chickens alive and ready compress into a singular force of momentum, carrying information to whomever is not supposed to know it.

And so after writing six pages, I still don’t know how to see that first paragraph. My story’s got a setting, a set-up and a conflict. Then there’s the climax – I choose not to believe, and in a scene worthy of Casablanca more than the Rabat Guerre station, get on the train. The events and emotions are all there, but my short story fails to reveal the correct, true way, in which they should be interpreted. Did Zach want America or this American girl? My story and I are both unsure of the meaning, not knowing if this final scene was a moment of clarity which proved Abdelkader right, or a moment of delusion which turned doubt into truth.

I’ve tried writing Zach many times, to gather more information, to better develop the two characters’ intentions, to discover what was motivating him to say “I love you” at the hotel, but it’s an email I can’t send. So the truth of my story remains ambiguous. This means the ache of ambiguity will keep me traveling my memory for clues, from point A of arriving in Morocco to point B of right before getting on the train, when I kissed Zach for the taste of betrayal. It was there, but I still can’t tell from which side.